Donovan Campbell
Page 18
Questions surrounding the IED material aside, the laws of war and general morality compelled us to intervene to prevent atrocities, atrocities like an armed man shooting a wounded, unarmed man in the head. All of this and more I explained to Teague when a few days later he asked me whether I thought that he had done the right thing by killing Mr. Iraq. He had, I told him, and I was very proud of his quick thinking, his straight shooting, and the life he had saved. I should have told Teague all of this sooner, though, because watching a man fall to the ground as he spurts blood out of his carotid arteries because you just put three pieces of metal through them is no small thing for a twenty-one-year-old to handle. Though the killing is easy and emotionless in the moment, it can sometimes comes back, especially if the man you killed wasn’t shooting at you when you shot him.
And, though I kept it solely between Teague and myself, my final response to all of our doubters, from the CO to the Army, was simple: Welcome to the world of deception and shifting allegiances that is Iraq, Golf Company. Only a fool would take a person at his word and at face value in this place.
Aside from the mystery terrorist’s celebrity status, there was one more relevant fact that I didn’t know on March 30, and it was that our platoon’s aggressive actions on that day were too little, too late. To date, nearly every unit in the battalion had been involved in at least one, if not several, enemy attacks, and 2/4 had responded with our own fire on fewer than five occasions. Our hesitance to engage our enemies spoke volumes about both their willingness to sacrifice civilians in pursuit of their aims and our willingness to sacrifice ourselves in pursuit of ours, but this powerful message had somehow been lost in translation. At the company and platoon level—the units actually on the street day in and day out—we had done almost no work with our Iraqi counterparts, the police and the national guard. Aside from George, there was no one to help us explain our seeming passivity in the face of repeated attacks to a population largely on the fence. Therefore, our kindness quickly became perceived as weakness by the insurgents and by most of Ramadi’s citizens, and by late March, 2/4 had earned itself the nickname awat, an Iraqi Arabic term for a soft, sugary cake that crumbles easily to the touch.
We didn’t know it then, but the insurgents had decided to touch us, to crumble us just like the soft cake that had become our namesake. The battalion had extended the velvet glove, and it was about to get its hands severely bitten.
EIGHTEEN
By early April, Golf Company had developed a solid feel for Ramadi’s daily pattern of activities, an understanding that allowed us to gauge the city’s normalcy. In the early morning, just after sunrise, men gathered at the local tea shops to drink shot glasses full of steaming chai; women began walking their children to school; and storefronts all across the city raised their locked steel doors and opened for business. The hustle and bustle of daily life reached its peak shortly before noon, with thousands of people thronging the souk and the industrial area, shopping, working, or, more probably, looking for work. At noon, the streets and marketplaces emptied as most people retired to their houses to try to sleep during the scorching afternoon heat. A few hours later, around 3 or 4 PM, commerce resumed until nightfall. Then the streets became largely empty again, and strict Islam, it seemed, took a backseat to practicality. During our early curfew enforcement patrols, the vast majority of erratic Iraqi drivers whom we pulled over at our checkpoints were inebriated.
Governing these rhythms of life were the muezzins’ chants. Five times a day they rang out across the city, in a ritual unchanged since the ninth century, save that in the twenty-first, electronic speakers magnified their sound.
Before people arose, while the city was still dark, the muezzins invited them to wake and pray. After everyone retired, just after darkness returned to Ramadi, the muezzins closed out the day with their chants. And three times in between, as life ebbed and flowed according to the heat and commerce, the muezzins reminded everyone to pause, just for a bit, and to pray.
Normally, we had no idea what different sentiments these chanted prayers contained as they competed with one another for the attention of the faithful in a furious cacophony of noise. We simply walked on through the babel and perhaps gave our own quick thanks that the streets were clear. At 10 AM on April 6, though, Golf Company knew that something was wrong, because for the first time since our arrival, we knew exactly what each mosque was saying during its call to prayer. From every minaret in the city, the same word rang out, over and over, in short, chanted blocks:
“JIHAD, JIHAD, JIHAD.”
Pause.
“JIHAD, JIHAD, JIHAD.”
Pause.
“JIHAD, JIHAD, JIHAD.”
Pause.
Every single muezzin in Ramadi was calling for a holy war against the Marines.
Unbeknownst to us, during the previous week several hundred hardcore insurgents had infiltrated the city with the intent of attacking head-on, and ultimately crumbling, the weak American Marines. Implementing a tactic that was currently working for them in Fallujah, the terrorists went from one house to another, staging weapons at each and telling the head of the family that if the caches were not there when the fighters returned, they would simply behead the family in front of the father before torturing the man to death. This prestaging of fighting positions eliminated the need to carry weapons openly in the streets. Knowing that we would not shoot unarmed individuals, the insurgents could thus use our rules of engagement against us by fighting from one house until they were overwhelmed, then leaving their weapons and retreating—unarmed and thus relatively safely mixed with the civilian populace at large—to the next house and the next fighting position. There they would take up arms again and repeat the process.
Making matters worse, the ranks of these “professional” insurgents were swelled by thousands of part-time volunteers, local Ramadi residents who grabbed the family AK-47 and ventured outside their compounds to take potshots at nearby Americans before returning and continuing with tea or television. Of course, not all Ramadians took part in the fighting, and estimates of the size of the force that we faced on April 6 vary widely, but consider the following: In the city of 350,000, it would have taken only 1 percent of the total residents to field some 3,000 volunteer fighters, a number easily four times that of our battalion’s roughly 800 able-bodied infantrymen. And one thing is certain—far more than 1 percent of Ramadi resented the American crusaders enough to take a relatively risk-free shot at them.
Thus, on the morning of April 6, Lieutenant Hesener and his platoon, Joker Three, were patrolling a wide swath of the city on foot, en route to the Government Center as the jihad prayers drew to a close. Suddenly they started taking sporadic fire. Within half an hour, the sporadic had turned intense, and Joker Three soon found itself separated into three isolated squads, each pinned down in a different house in the middle of Ramadi, taking fire from and returning it at an enemy that seemed to be everywhere. As we were on QRF that day, Joker One was sent in first to relieve them and to extract the dead and wounded, but it soon became apparent that every man who could be spared from the Outpost was needed, so the CO called in Joker Four and the battalion’s Weapons Company to reinforce us. To our east, Porcupine, the sister company sharing the Outpost with us, was also hit by numerous well-coordinated, well-planned ambushes. Eventually every available man in the battalion would be deployed into the fight, and by the time the sun set on April 6, twelve Marines had lost their lives. At least twenty-five others were wounded in the bloodiest day of the Iraq War since the fall of Baghdad.
For Joker One, though, the events of April 6 began well before we launched into the city to relieve third platoon. In fact, for us April 6 began precisely at 12 AM, as we were once again wide awake on the roof of the Government Center when midnight rolled around. We had arrived there seven hours earlier, in the late afternoon of April 5. I had taken first and third squads out on foot to guard the complex while my second squad rested back at the Outpost. Whi
le at the Center, I planned for us to run a few squad-sized security patrols during the early evening; then, after nightfall, I wanted to alternate first and third squads between resting and standing security up on the roof. On our return to the firmbase, early on the morning of April 6, we would sweep Michigan for IEDs so that Joker Three, the day’s operation platoon, didn’t have to. When the sweep passed the northern soccer stadium, my plan called for second squad to meet us there and beef up our security as we patrolled through them during the last stage of the sweep.
Like most of my plans, this one didn’t survive very long. First off, while on patrol with Noriel during the late afternoon of April 5, I received radio reports that a substantial crowd was gathering south of the Government Center and that a violent protest would likely soon be headed our way. I was pleased—a mass of people willing to stay in one place and assault us meant that we finally stood some decent chance of fighting back. We hustled back to the Center, and I put both second and third squads on security, splitting them between the roof and the two entrances to the compound. For several hours we waited on 100 percent alert, but the predicted protest never materialized. When the streets finally cleared, well after sundown, I stood third squad down so that they could get some rest. However, no sooner had I done this than another “intelligence” report came down from battalion: Insurgents had packed a vehicle full of explosives, and the suicide bomber driving it was definitely headed our way with the intent to trade his life for several of ours. Third squad stood right back up again, and Bowen and I frantically positioned commandeered vehicles in front of the two gates to the Government Center to prevent a high-speed car impact from penetrating our quarters.
We waited for another two or three hours, nervously scanning every vehicle that passed for signs of erratic driving, but, once again, nothing happened. Disgusted with our intel, I finally sent third squad inside to rest and then bedded myself down on the Government Center roof. Not more than an hour later, battalion called again with yet another report, one that claimed an IED had been placed in a local middle school five blocks to our south. We were the nearest forces; go check it out, came the order. I felt like a jack-in-the-box—up, down, up, down, up, down. Wearily, I sent first squad with Noriel down to the school while third took over security duties. Soon enough, first reported back that, finally, battalion had gotten it right. There was indeed an IED at the school, and the squad cordoned it off and waited for EOD, the explosive disposal experts, to clear it.
Three hours later, they were still waiting, and I was getting very nervous. Finally, at 2 AM, first squad returned, and Corporal Teague gave me some bad news. EOD’s little robot was dead—that was why the bomb disposal had taken so long—and the explosives experts had no idea when the robot would be fixed again. Hearing that, I hoped desperately that we wouldn’t find any IEDs during the morning’s route sweep, because I had no desire to sit in a cordon in downtown Ramadi for an untold number of hours, waiting for a robot that might or might not be fixed sometime in our near future.
So, of course, we found an IED almost immediately. The reduced Joker One had assembled blearily at about 4:15 AM—no one had really slept—and headed down Michigan ten minutes later. First was on the northern side, third was to our south, and the engineer, Corporal Aiken, and I were walking squarely down the middle of the highway. After about five minutes of patrolling, Aiken turned to me.
“Sir, I just kicked a really heavy piece of trash. Trash isn’t normally this heavy, sir. I think it might be an IED. What do you want to do, sir?”
I looked around rapidly. The streets were completely deserted.
“Well, Aiken, if they wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. No sense in cordoning off something that we don’t know is an IED, especially if the stupid robot is down. Let’s cut open this trash bag. If you’ve got a knife handy, I’ll hold a flashlight up so that you can see.” It was still fairly dark out.
“Roger that, sir.”
So, somehow I found myself bending over a suspected IED, a red-lens LED flashlight in my mouth, holding steady what appeared to be a full black plastic trash bag so that the engineer could cut it open with his bayonet (if we moved it too much, an antihandling device might set the bomb off). Aiken proceeded slowly and cautiously and he unveiled a huge block of explosive with wires, circuitry, and other nasty bits wrapped all around it. As soon as we grasped what we were looking at, Aiken and I bolted away in an absolutely reflexive, completely thought-free reaction. Once we were a moderately safe distance out, I radioed Bowen and Noriel, told them about the IED, and instructed them to hold in place for a bit.
Two quick assents came back, and staring at the little bomb in the median, I briefly had no idea how to proceed. Standard doctrine called for us to cordon off the bomb and wait for EOD, but standard doctrine didn’t take into account the fact that EOD wasn’t working that day. We could be in a cordon for hours, perfect static targets, and if the enemy didn’t get us, the heat very well might. However, I couldn’t just leave the bomb where it lay and hope that some other unit would cover for my lack of responsibility and my fear, and after my earlier nervous experience carrying around a much smaller quantity of explosives, I had no desire to pick up this IED, put it in my butt pack, and take it home with us like some twisted version of an adopted pet.
I hesitated to call the COC for guidance, though, because the Ox was on watch. I knew that in lieu of a careful evaluation of the various available courses of action, he would simply instruct me to do what he perceived as the toughest thing possible: Cordon off the IED and wait. As I pondered the situation, Corporal Aiken, a little shaken but still thinking, sidled up to me and suggested that we blow the bomb in place with the sticks of C-4 he was carrying.
Problem solved. If anyone was watching that bomb, it would have gone off by now, so there wasn’t a lot more risk to be had by sending someone out to it again (or so I judged at the time). I radioed the squad leaders with our plan, and, once they had gotten everyone behind some solid cover, I gave Aiken the go-ahead to move out with the mission. Immediately he trotted out, disappearing into the blackness between two nearby buildings. Meanwhile, I watched the IED site intently, and, about a minute later, Aiken suddenly darted out of the shadows to my front. He ran up to the IED, put something onto it, fiddled for about ten seconds, and then took off again in one of the fastest runs I have ever seen. Maybe a minute later, a huge explosion rocked the street, and great gouts of concrete flew up into the air. The patrol picked up again, and I got on the radio to let a no-doubt nervous COC know what we had just done. “Joker COC, this is Joker One-Actual. Be advised, that explosion you just heard was us blowing an IED in place about three hundred meters east of the Government Center. Break. We are continuing the route sweep mission now. Over.”
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Immediately a furious Ox started shouting at me out of the handset. “Joker One, be advised, what the fuck did you just do?”
“Five, I say again, we blew an IED in place. Break. The engineers detonated it with some C-4, and we are now continuing the route sweep mission. Over.”
“One, did you not listen to the fucking presentation that we were given by that fucking guy back in the States? A lot of fucking engineers have been killed doing that. You should’ve waited for EOD. Over.”
“Five, I will repeat what I told you earlier today. EOD’s robot is down indefinitely. Over.”
“Whatever. You could’ve cordoned off the area like you were fucking supposed to. Over.”
I pulled the radio handset back from my head and glared at it for a second. Then, in my most detached, professional voice: “Five, be advised we are proceeding with the route sweep mission at this time. Out.”
“Yeah, well, we can talk about this when you get back. Over.”
Fortunately, first and third squads made it to the northern soccer stadium without any further incidents. There we linked up with Leza and second squad at 6 AM, passed them as they pro
vided overwatch for us, and continued into the Outpost. Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting for second squad to report back into the base when Leza called me over the PRR. He sounded uncharacteristically nervous, and after a brief bit of fumbling with his words, he spit it out: Raymond’s team was nowhere to be found—not in the base, not in the soccer stadium. They couldn’t be raised on the PRRs, and they had no other radios with them. For all intents and purposes, they were lost and completely cut off from friendly forces.
My heart fell through my chest. Terrified, I ran back to the platoon’s house and reassembled all the men on the slim chance that somehow the team had simply been missed by everyone, but it didn’t pan out—our lost Marines were still nowhere to be found. Next, Leza and I climbed the walls of the Outpost, calling over our PRRs time and time again for Raymond and his team to report, but all we got in return was dead silence over our earpieces. Fearing the worst, I ran to the COC to report that I was missing four of my men and to check and see whether any other friendly units out in the city might have found them.
They hadn’t, and I was getting more anxious by the minute. In the COC, the Ox was incredulous, and he peppered me with question after inane question about how a group of Marines could possibly have been so dumb as to have gotten lost well within sight of our base. Eventually I snapped and told him to shut the hell up. I had the same questions, the same disappointment in my men, but the Ox’s rambling, cursing commentary wasn’t doing anything other than distracting everyone around from the useful pursuit of my lost team. After I determined that there was nothing left to learn from our battalion, I left the Ox and his useless ranting and ran back to the platoon’s house to get my men ready for a sweep through the northern part of Ramadi. We were halfway through assembling to leave again when a headquarters Marine came running into the house with the news that Raymond’s team had been found: They were at Hurricane Point, the Marine base all the way on the other side of the city. A weight fell off me, and suddenly I felt very, very tired—it had been over twenty-four hours now since any of us had slept. The platoon stood down, and slowly and wearily the Marines started peeling off their heavy gear load. Meanwhile, I trudged back to the COC to get the full story.